


christmas eve will find me

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to my other Christmas fic, 'where the love light gleams'.  Emma's first Christmas in Storybrooke. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	christmas eve will find me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [where the love light gleams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088601) by [WhiteLadyoftheRing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing). 



_**christmas eve will find me** _

 

They aren’t like other families.

 

In Storybrooke, they are far from normal. That’s not exactly a change for them, but this is … different. There’s a dimness to everyone here, as if all the light has faded from the town and its residents. While Henry pours too much syrup on his pancakes and Emma calculates just how long his sugar high will last, their waitress and her grandmother bicker and sigh. There’s no fire there, no spirit. There never is; even as they come to the diner every Tuesday and Thursday morning for breakfast, nothing changes. It’s the same fight, the same eyeroll and huff before the waitress stalks back into the kitchen. It’s not just them either; no-one is happy here. Even the children on the playground are quiet and distant.

 

There is no happiness here; not at all. That had been apparent since her birthday, when she and Henry had first rolled into town and taken up residence in the town’s sole vacant apartment.

 

At first, Emma hadn’t blamed them. Despite spending her childhood on a farm, she’d always been drawn to the city - the enormity, the hectic pace. She could certainly understand being underwhelmed by the ‘small-town charm’. She felt it herself; a big-city girl turned small-town deputy.

 

And then--

 

And then things begin to fall into place.

 

It’s stupid she knows. Childish. _Delusional_. And it really isn’t something she should involve her kid in, but--

 

“Mom? Dad?”

 

“Emma! Are you two on your way yet? You’d better hurry before your father eats all the cookies. He’s already been eyeing the--”

 

There’s a click, and then Dad’s voice. “Don’t listen to her. Half the dough didn’t even make it to the oven because of her.”

 

Emma lets out a snort of laughter - her parents never change - and with it she feels some of her anxiety dissipate. “Guys, listen -- I know I said we’d come home for Christmas, but--”

 

Mom cuts her off, heartbroken. “You’re not coming?”

 

“No. I mean yes -- I mean--” she sighs, then bites her lip. “Actually, I was wondering if you could come here? You could see where we live, see that we’re eating right and stuff. I mean -- the fridge has at least a few vegetables in it. We don’t have a lot of space but you two could take my bed and I could sleep with Henry or on the couch or--”

 

She’s rambling, and it’s Dad’s turn to cut her off. “Emma, what’s going on?”

 

“Something weird is going on here,” she admits, then looks over to where Henry is standing precariously on a kitchen chair, hanging the mistletoe. “I -- I want to see what you guys think about it.”

 

Her parents are quiet for a moment, and she holds her breath, imagining them having one of their silent conversations. As a kid, it drove her crazy to watch them converse wordlessly, all the while having no idea what they’re talking about. It still does, actually. “Of course, Emma,” Mom says at last. “We’d love to come.”

 

Emma exhales. “Great. GPS doesn’t really work here, so I’ll text you directions …”

 

.

 

Dad has had the same truck her entire life. She rode in it on her first day of kindergarten, and fell asleep in it on the ride home from her high school graduation. In fact, the only important landmark she can remember without that truck was bringing Henry home from the hospital. So when Emma spies the old Ford pulling up alongside her yellow bug, she can’t help but smile. “Hey kid, guess who’s here.”

 

Henry jumps up, tossing the storybook aside, and races out the door and down the stairs, and she can’t even turn from the window before he’s rushing into his grandmother’s arms. Dad is there too of course, loading himself up with armfuls of Christmas dinner. She’s a little relieved at that, having never cooked a turkey before (and moreover having not even _bought_ one to begin with).

 

“Look, Mom!” Henry gushes, having taken the stairs two steps at a time, even with the armful of packages he’s carrying. “Presents!”

 

Her parents follow, trudging up the stairs with armfuls of gifts and food. They’re younger than her now - as strange a thought as that is - and are hardly winded when they make their way into the living room and dump everything on the kitchen counter. “You really think we’d forget presents?” Dad laughs. “Your list was only two miles long.”

 

Emma groans. “Don’t remind me.” Then moves to hug her mother, and leans up as her father kisses her forehead.

 

“Mom!”

 

“Henry, why don’t you finish changing the sheets so your grandparents can sleep tonight?”

 

“Is that code for ‘the grown-ups need to talk so get out of the way’?”

 

“Exactly. Now move it.” Henry whines, then grabs the laundry basket and plods up the stairs to his room. Emma turns her attention back to her parents, gesturing for them to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Thanks for coming. I know this was last minute, but I really need to know what you think about this.”

 

Her parents are quiet at that, exchanging a knowing look.

 

She joins them, setting the storybook down in the middle of the table and taking a deep breath. Now or never. “Look. I know it seemed crazy when I was a kid, but let’s face it - you look twenty-five when we all know you should be in your fifties. It’s not normal. Neither is letting your kid believe in curses and magical wardrobes well into her teens.”

 

Her parents don’t say anything at that, don’t even look to one another. Mom merely reaches over to clasp Dad’s hand.

 

“It’s crazy. And it’s impossible. But you know what else is impossible? Not leaving a paper trail for twenty-five years. And parents that don’t age. Those are impossible too. I’ve looked into every other possible explanation, and _this_ ,” she taps her finger against the storybook, “this is the only thing that makes sense. The curse is real, isn’t it?”

 

They’re quiet - too quiet - and for a brief moment Emma’s afraid they’ll just avoid answering, that they’ll change the subject just like they have her whole life; never lying, but never telling either. And then--

 

“It’s real,” Dad says.

 

“Then why didn’t you--”

 

Mom cuts her off. “ _You_ had to figure it out yourself.”

 

Emma blinks, unsure of how to process this. She knows she should feel vindicated, or maybe even a little betrayed that her parents have kept this from her for so long, but instead all she feels is bewildered and _lost_.

 

“So it _is_ true!”

 

_Shit._ “Henry!” she admonishes, but he’s already running down the stairs, jumping into his grandparents’ arms.

 

“I knew it!”

 

“I told you to go upstairs,” Emma warns.

 

“Emma,” Mom says, and for the first time in her life, Emma allows herself to recognize the queen in her mother - the way she commands the room with regal grace. “This is why you wanted us to come here, right? _What_ is going on?”

 

.

 

The town is the curse.

 

It takes some time to piece it together. It takes even longer for Emma to comprehend _why_ her parents had never told her about the curse themselves. She feels a small pang of betrayal at that still, but she understands. She’d let her parents raise Henry for the first three years of his life while she finished school; she’d lost those years to give him his best chance. They’d only been trying to do the same.

 

They love her. Not for a single moment has she ever doubted that.

 

“But how do I break it? I’m the savior, right? So that means when I came here the curse should have broken. But it didn’t. Everyone’s still miserable.”

 

Henry is busy making a list of who he’s figured out - which person is which in the story - and Dad is looking over his shoulder and adding notes to certain names.

 

“Well,” Mom says hesitantly. “I don’t think it’ll break the curse, but I have an idea.”

 

.

 

They throw a party.

 

A Christmas Eve party, to be exact, with about two hours to plan. Mom says the least they can do is try to give their friends a merry Christmas.

 

“Christmas means hope,” she says, shoving two trays of cookies in the oven. “And hope is the most powerful magic of all.”

 

Though apparently not powerful enough to give them an infinite supply of ingredients. They run out of sugar about two batches in, and the four of them bundle up to walk to the store. It’s only five blocks away, but Mom buries her face in her scarf, pulling it up past her nose, and Dad pops the collar of his jacket.

 

It’s a good thing, too, because they only make it two blocks before Emma spies the mayor coming their way on the opposite side of the street. Mom stiffens beside her instantly, as if the woman’s mere presence is enough to set her on edge, and Dad’s grip on her arm tightens.

 

“There she is,” Mom seethes, pulling in that direction.

 

“Snow--”

 

Mom begins tugging off her gloves. “I could just--”

 

“Whoa there, feisty pants,” Dad breathes, catching her round the waist. “Probably not the best time.”

 

“But she--”

 

“Is also the mayor and kind of my boss,” Emma cuts in. “My boss’s boss, technically.”

 

Mom bristles. “She cursed the whole town!”

 

Dad rubs her arm, but he looks just as unhappy. “Which is why we should be careful.”

 

“Yeah, like a secret mission,” Henry suggests. “Let’s call it … Operation Cobra!”

 

.

 

It seems they’ve invited half the town, though really they only call up those on Henry’s list that her parents have deemed ‘safe’. Ruby and Granny from the diner come, and so does Leroy and Dr. Hopper. Others are trickling in slowly, wandering around the small apartment and yet not ever really interacting with anyone else. The loft really isn’t big enough for such a large party, and the kitchen counter is hardly big enough to contain all the sweets Mom has made.

 

“Do you really think this will work?” Emma asks skeptically, watching their guests gather uncertainly in the kitchen. It had taken enough work to convince them to come, and now it seems at least half of them are contemplating leaving.

 

“I don’t know,” Mom admits, chewing idly on the side of her thumbnail. “I’m not even sure what ‘working’ would even mean.”

 

“So what was this?”

 

“A long-shot,” Mom admits, gazing longingly to where Ruby is rolling her eyes at Granny. “I just thought--”  
  


“It was a good idea,” Emma says, cutting her off. “We just need -- an ice-breaker? I don’t know. I don’t think there’s exactly a manual for breaking curses.”

 

Something lights up in her mother’s eyes, and before Emma can say anything, she’s pushing the kitchen table up against the wall and turning the radio to a Christmas station.

 

“Mom, what are you--”

 

And then her mother is pulling her into the center of the floor, turning her in circles as their guests look on. There isn’t much room, but Dad still manages to pull Granny onto the makeshift dance floor, spinning her round and round until she too is laughing.

 

.

 

There’s a knock at the door.

 

Emma stills, even though Henry is still dancing and tugging on her hands. She sees her parents pause their swaying too, hands gripping each other a little too tightly.

 

All their guests are here. They aren’t expecting anyone else.

 

It could be nothing, but the threat of the mayor - of the _evil queen_ \- is suddenly more real than ever, and she wonders briefly if maybe this party had been a terrible mistake.

 

But everyone is happy. That’s definitely something. If anything, everyone is happy for the first time since she’s come to this town, and she thinks of something her mother had told her long ago - to look for the good moments between the bad ones, because they’re all worth living.

 

When she answers the door, it isn’t Regina.

 

It’s her boss.

 

“Graham -- hi. What are you--?”

 

She hears her parents and Henry hold a hushed conversation behind her. She can’t quite catch it, though because--

 

“Here on business,” Graham says, planting his hands on his hips. “Miss Carlton downstairs called in a complaint about the noise.”

 

“Oh,” she says dumbly. “Sorry. We’ll -- keep it down.”

 

He lingers in the doorway, looking past her to where Henry is (ineffectively) teaching Ruby to dance. “What is this?”

 

“A Christmas party?”

 

Graham smiles. “And you didn’t invite me?”

 

“You’re supposed to be working,” she shoots back, folding her arms across her chest. “You did come here on business, didn’t you?”

 

He walks past her into the entryway without invitation, then pauses when he comes face to face with Mom. “Hello,” he frowns. “Do I -- do I know you?”

 

Mom swallows hard, and Dad wraps his arm around her waist reassuringly. “No,” she says breathlessly. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

The huntsman, Emma thinks. The man who saved her mother’s life, her father’s, and in turn her own. Graham. Her boss, and the first man in a long time who has looked at her and not seen someone strange and broken, with too much baggage.

 

“Graham,” she says. “This is my -- sister. Mary Margaret. And her husband David.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mom says softly, and clasps his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

.

 

That night, Emma doesn’t dance with her father.

 

She dances with Graham.

 

He’s more graceful than she’d expected, but years of practice - years of training to be a princess - have put her leaps and bounds ahead of him. She leads him around the small apartment, twirls herself around him, and for a moment, she thinks this is the happiest she’s been in a long time.

 

They break to give the floor to her parents, and pull aside to inspect the assortment of sweets Mom has made.

 

“This is quite the party,” he comments. “I can’t remember the last time I’d been to one.”

 

“I don’t think you’re alone in that,” she grins, thinking of the cursed town, of twenty-eight years without laughter and happiness. Perhaps the curse isn’t breaking tonight - maybe it won’t break for weeks, or months or maybe even years - but it seems it may have weakened, faltering under the power of something much greater than fear: hope.

 

“It’s been so long, in fact,” he says, voice strained, “that I’d almost forgotten one very important tradition.”

 

She frowns, confused, until she follows his gaze upward to a sprig of white and green hanging from the ceiling.

 

Mistletoe.

 

His hands are warm against her cheeks, his lips chapped against her own, as she melts into the kiss. She feels something, a pulse perhaps or maybe a surge of … _something_.

 

And when he pulls away, he’s breathless. There’s a spark of realization in his eyes; she sees it when he glances to her parents taking turns swinging Henry around on the makeshift dance floor, when he looks back at her with something more than before.

 

“I remember,” he whispers.

 

And then he kisses her again.


End file.
